The Life Of Man

The world's a bubble; and the life of man less than a span.In his conception wretched; from the womb so to the tomb:Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years, with cares and fears.Who then to frail mortality shall trust,But limns the water, or but writes in dust.Yet, since with sorrow here we live oppress'd, what life is best?Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools:The rural parts are turn'd into a den of savage men:And where's a city from all vice so free,But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Guiltless Heart

The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence:He only can behold with unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,